


did make us into corresponding shapes

by CatalpaWaltz



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoopy sleepy spies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4670111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalpaWaltz/pseuds/CatalpaWaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: I'd like to see the gang in the aftermath of a tough mission, all of them bruised, battered and absolutely falling-down exhausted.</p>
<p>Pretty much what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	did make us into corresponding shapes

"Just a little farther." 

Eighteen hours ago, Napoleon had said the words to her as he half-led, half-carried her out of the door of the warehouse, which was already starting to go up in flames behind them, and into the waiting door of a commandeered taxicab. 

"Just a little farther." 

Something about the phrase had lodged it in Gaby's memory, and through the events which unfolded since it had morphed into something of a mantra, an anchor to the swiftly-unraveling foundations of what the mission was supposed to have been. 

"Just a little farther." 

The words had carried her through that car ride, which had soon morphed into a car chase, then a car crash, then a gunfight, then a sprint through the woods, then two hours hiding in a box car, then an unexpected train ride, a dive off a bridge, a dip in a river and so on and so forth until she had quite lost track. 

At last, at last, Napoleon had managed to deploy what remained of his charm, battered as it was by the mud ground into his clothes and the twigs in his hair, to convince a passing lorry driver to give them a lift to a little mountain town where the CIA kept a safe house. It wasn't the guaranteed welcome they would have had if they had been able to call upon Waverly's resources, but it was the best option at hand. 

Gaby doesn't care. She'd be willing to curl up by the side of the road if either of them suggested it. But her exhaustion has reached the point where all of the energy that might have gone into maintaining her sense of will and propriety has been diverted into simply keeping her knees from buckling beneath her. Even Illya, who could otherwise have been depended upon to raise at least some kind of objection to "sheltering with the enemy" or whatever obstinate turn of phrase he was like to use, had followed Napoleon's lead without comment. Somewhere along the line, Gaby can't remember when, he'd wrenched his shoulder rather badly (she's sure it's dislocated, but he hadn't let them stop long enough for her to confront him about it) and his usual taciturn demeanor had cemented into the unremitting silence of closed fists and a clenched jaw. 

The first light of dawn is just kissing the tops of the surrounding pines when they stumble over the crest of the last hill and approach the squat, dark shape of the rundown little safe house. Napoleon fishes a key out from a little lockbox hidden beneath an empty flowerpot, and the door opens with a pitiful creak. 

Any other time, and she could expect at least one disdainful comment from Napoleon on the state of a place so unrepentantly shabby, an off-hand remark on the "indignities of government service," or just a long-suffering sigh. But he says nothing, just leaves the door open for her and Illya to pass through while he goes around back to check the rest of the perimeter. 

The place smells of dust and mildew, but there's no whiff of rot or some hint that they will be sharing this shelter with any unwelcome animal companions, as she had feared. Through the dim light that filters through the curtains she can just perceive the shapes of a few wooden chairs, a table, a bed on a low frame. 

She's still considering, with all the mental agility of a jar of molasses, whether or not she has it in her to make herself useful as Solo is doing when Illya pushes past her, reaches the far wall, stops, turns, and flops down onto the dust-covered floor. 

The dull 'thud' he makes as he hits the ground startles her into awareness and reminds her of the problems still at hand. Illya looks more grey than even the faint illumination should make him. He leans his head against the timber wall, his legs sprawled out in front of him. He's holding his arm to his chest, and doesn't seem to have the strength to look even remotely murderous. His eyes drift, glassy and unfocused, and Gaby feels a spark of fear drive out some of her own weariness. 

"Solo!"

Napoleon's only response is to show up at the door, having done what he can to make sure they're as secure as might be expected. He doesn't ask her what's wrong, just takes one look at the Russian on the floor. 

"Right. I'd forgotten about that."

For once, he's not peering at Illya like he's a safe to crack or a mark to manipulate. He looks, well, not ruffled exactly, but tarnished. He's as unpolished as Gaby has ever seen him. Even in Italy, after half an hour driving through the mud, then getting the shit kicked out of him by Vinciguerra and his tire iron, it had only taken a few seconds of combing his fingers through his hair and wiping the mud off his face before he had managed to look somehow, miraculously, presentable. Now, not so much. 

"There should be a first aid kit somewhere in the kitchen. Check under the sink." 

She goes, glad to be out of the way for what has to happen next. At the very least, Solo isn't going to take his time about it. 

Through the thin plywood door she hears Solo approach Illya, his steps measured and slow, no sudden movements. He must be trying to get a better look at his injured shoulder, because she hears Illya mutter something that might have been a string of curse words or might have just been a series of growls. What even made the difference, she wonders, in that language? 

"I am sorry about this Peril." 

And just like that, a rustle, the briefest of struggles, and a horribly audible "pop." Illya actually moans, the sound so raw and foreign and unrestrained that for a second Gaby doesn't recognize it. She hurries back in with the kit, flicking the latch and popping the lid while she goes. Solo fishes out a few painkillers of the heavy duty variety that he persuades Illya to take with uncharacteristic lack of argument, and she fashions a makeshift sling out of some cloth bandages. 

After that's done, she sinks down to the floor on Illya's uninjured side. She feels the grit of months of accumulated dust under her hands, her legs (still mostly bare under her ruined shift dress, but at least this one only came from Biba and didn't cost her much.) She leans tentatively against the warm bulk of her partner, and is pleasantly surprises when he settles closer against her. 

Solo stands in front of them, arms hanging limply at his sides. It's so odd she thinks, hazily, to see him not in a pose of some kind, not reaching for his usual showmanship. She half expected him to cross his arms in mock-consternation, make a jab about how "you know, there is an actual bed in here," maybe accompanied by a little smirk, a salacious eyebrow waggle. Instead, without even toeing off his shoes, he clambers down so that he's sitting at Gaby's other side. She lets him put his arm around her shoulders, though he doesn't try to get too close. 

She's awake just long enough to think what a pathetic picture they must make, and then it's lights out. 

\---------------------

She doesn't sleep as well as might be expected. The first time she comes to, it's with the sensation of being wrapped up in a pair of strong, solid arms, carrying her through the darkness. 

The possibilities immediately begin to march through her mind, suddenly sharpened by surprise and adrenaline. Has she been taken captive? No, the gentle hand at the small of her back has nothing of the kidnapper in it. Then she thinks it must be Illya, and she's ready to let him have it for disregarding his own injury to do something as utterly pointless as carting her around like an infant. But when she opens her eyes, she sees that Illya is still on the floor, sprawled on his back now with his own coat rolled up beneath his head for a pillow and a blanket pulled up under his chin. When she looks down, her eyes fall on the expanse of Solo's back. A few more steps and he's setting her down gently on a creaky mattress. He smooths the hair off her forehead and pulls another blanket over her. She's already starting to drift off again when he speaks. 

"Don't worry," he says, and she can hear the smugness of his grin. "I changed the sheets." 

She's never met anyone so completely ridiculous.


End file.
